Wish You Were Here
by Scarlett Lucky
Summary: Alternative Universe: 2nd World War. Ferriswheelshipping. White, an aspiring writer, and N, aspiring photographer, meet on their way to Paris, but fate had choosen an uncommon destiny for this couple of strangers. A lovestory during the hard times of war.


**_Wish You Were Here._**

_Burgundy, France. February 25th 1937._

«Anf ... anf ... it's ... late ... damn late».

A girl ran desperately into the wide corridors of the station of a small town in Burgundy, dodging passers-by with incredible agility and occasionally muttering a few curses about how she was lazy and tardy. The thick brown hair had been pulled up in a messy tail swaying dramatically because of her rapid movements. The brown leather strap, slamming continuously against the knee, covered by a red light linen skirt, would certainly have left a bruise, while the giant bag she was trailing behind her created serious problems in maintaining the large stack of manuscripts held in her hand. Being a writer in her spare time was a job , if so you could always define , harder than it seemed : the clock ticked eleven and twenty-seven minutes, and the departure of the train that would take her to Paris with the hope of finding a sacred editor would have departed by eleven and twenty-four minutes. There was no doubt because her family was so contrary to her artistic career, but, frankly, she couldn't care less about what her family thought of her. She gave strength to the muscles of the legs, considerably speeding up, until she stood before the eyes the figure of the train, as well as the image of the steam coming out of the chimney of the locomotive and of the wheels that began to move on the tracks. The nearer the train was, the more she thought about her great future a novelist. But fate had other plans.

A green and white figure streaked through the crowd, heading towards the last car of the train and entering inevitably on a collision course with the young writer, scattering within a meter his photographs and the manuscripts of her.

«Ouch! The manuscripts, holy -», frantically cursed the brunette in a desperate attempt to gather the material which had fallen to the ground, but she was interrupted by the whistle of the departing train.

She saw his dreams of glory fade away in the distance, and, distraught, she slid to her knees, picking up her stuff with a resigned air, until she felt a curious look on her. She lifted her head only to see the cause of the problem that had made her lose the train of her life: a young man of twenty years at the most, with long green hair kept in a ponytail, was staring at her with a look of regret. He was wearing a white shirt and brown pants visibly well made but with the air of having been used for a long time, giving him the look of someone who was originally supposed to belong to a wealthy family.

«I am infinitely sorry, Miss, I ... ».

«YOU! Piece of idiot that you are! », interrupted the girl grabbing him by his shirt collar. «Do you realize what you've done? That train was my chance of the century, I spent my whole life savings to buy a ticket and now ... now ...», she muttered before collapsing to the ground again bursting into almost childlike tears. The young man knelt down and handed her a handkerchief. The girl looked at him dumbfounded for a moment before blowing her nose loudly.

« I offer my most sincere apologies, Miss, I didn't want you to lose such an important occasion, but in the heat to reach the train I have not spared my footing. I know it's nothing compared to the loss you suffered, but I would like to offer you something to drink».

The young writer looked at him curiously for a moment before getting up and blatantly ignoring the hand the boy offered her.

* * *

_February 27th, 1937._

The Café near the station was, as usual, buzzing with people who chatted of this and that, as if there was nothing to worry about, though, the photographs that once dotted the walls, had been replaced with the newspaper incitement to revolt against the Reich. Not that this was an impossible task, but for France, however, it appeared as something extremely difficult to do.

«What would you like to order, Sir? ».

«For me a strong coffee, while Miss ... ».

«For me, an extra large beer, thanks», the eccentric writer interrupted him with nonchalance. The waiter gave her a surprised look, while the young man gazed at her, almost amused, chin resting on the palm of the hand.

«Would you mind, Miss, to ...», he began, smiling slightly.

«Don't call me like that, please; it makes me feel terribly old».

«All right ... », continued the boy clearing his throat. «Why you cared so much about going to Paris? If I may know, of course».

«Since I 'm kind of a writer, I wanted to go to Paris in search of a publisher, I heard that novels are quite popular in there», she said emptying in one gulp half of the glass of beer.

The young man let out a chuckle, then opened his eyes, as if he had suddenly remembered that he had left off something very important. «God, how rude, I did not even present myself . I am Natural Harmonia Gropius, in art simply ' N '».

«In art? », asked the brunette, frowning slightly.

The boy looked down, embarrassed. «Yes, I am a photographer».

At that moment, her blue eyes lit up, her lips curled gently pulling out a row of small white teeth perfectly aligned and two lovely dimples at the corners of the mouth. «My pleasure, N. I'm White».

That smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; he would have given anything to immortalize her in that moment. The young writer had finished emptying her glass, showing a funny pair of foam mustache.

«You know White», the boy said, resting his cheek on his hand dreamily. « I don't think I'll let you go very easily».

Unexpectedly, she smiled again. «Well, now that I've missed the train I have a lot of free time to deal with».

* * *

_October 18th, 1937._

The girl looked at him sadly: another rejection letter from the editor, another delusion, but she was trying to hide her sadness to the young photographer. «Patience, these fools plebeians do not appreciate my art», she said in a mocking snobbish tone.

N smiled wistfully. «Despite the months passing, I cannot help but feel guilty for making you miss that train. If you were able to go to Paris you'd be already a renowned and popular professional writer».

White rose on her tiptoes and tapped a finger on the boy's forehead. «Don't mention it even as a joke. No one guarantees that if I took that train things would have been different from now, and then», she added with an almost mocking smile «we would never have met if I had arrived on time at the station».

The young man leaned against the railing, looking thoughtfully at the beautiful autumn landscape the countryside of Burgundy offered him. Suddenly, turning to the girl, he took her hand in his, blushing visibly. The girl tilted her head slightly to the side, pulling out a questioning smile.

«W -White I promise that one day I'll be able to take you to P- Paris, even if I had to take you on my shoulders and get there on foot ». The young writer gave him an affectionate glance, returning the close of his hands.

* * *

_Paris, France. April 25th, 1938._

The spring had hit Paris with all its fresh and fragrant vehemence, showering of flowers and leaves on every tree in the city. She was placidly sipping her usual beer, carefully observing the expression of N while caught with an old camera flash the wonders of every single nook and cranny of the most beautiful city in Europe. They were there only for a temporary visit, but in the end they had a lifetime to spend together in that magnificent city, she had just to give it time, or at least she hoped it was so. She loved the serious expression he assumed when he went about his work, she would have remained to watch him for hours while his gray eyes peered carefully every detail of the surrounding landscape. She drained her mug, leaving money on the table and then reaching sneakily the guy who was still immersed in his art.

«Hmm ... that tree would not hurt to be photographed, it has some beautiful flowers and behind it you can see the Seine ».

The shrill voice of the young writer turned suddenly the boy from his work, making him almost drop the camera on the ground. «White, damn it! You scared me to death». The girl laughed in reply, showing white foam mustache above her lips.

_Click!_

«Why did you take a picture? », she asked recovering from laughter.

«Because you are so beautiful with that mustache of beer that I couldn't not capture you», replied the young photographer gently taking away the foam with his hand.

«Eh?! Idiot, how could you !».

N let out a chuckle: White was like that, she drank more than most men, she always smiled, and she was incredibly touchy and sometimes a bit naive, often, as on that occasion, she filled him with painful fists on his chest and arms but soon after she apologized in fear of making him seriously ill. He was sure that there was no one like her in the world: through her eyes, always so curious, he could read as if she was an open book. She was so small that, on the rare occasions in which he found the courage to embrace her, he was afraid to break her, even though more than once she had shown that in that body which was so pretty was enclosed a physical strength far superior to his. She was...

« White», he said suddenly becoming serious. The curious blue eyes of the young writer met those gray and serious of the aspiring photographer. "«... I'd do anything for you». For the first time since they met, it was her turn to blush, making the young man ask himself if that was the absolute beauty that artists were seeking for centuries. He had fell in love with her since their first fateful meeting at the station, when she had smiled for the first time with those lovely white foam mustaches. In a gesture of courage he leaned forward printing a very quick kiss on her lips, blushing instantly. The girl stared at him in shock for a moment before taking a run to hug him, throwing them on the turf. N could swear that with the temperature of its face in that moment he could melt steel.

* * *

_Burgundy, France. 15th August 1939._

The summer breeze flowed through her hair, letting the usual messy ponytail sway freely, while the clouds in the sky compacted quickly accompanied by the sound of some distant thunder. Soon heavy drops of rain hit the ground, like a healing balm revitalizing the golden ears of the field. N suddenly grabbed her hand, dragging her away from the tree that provided them shelter and inviting her with a bow to dance with him. While his arms gently encircled her waist, she laid her head on his chest, listening to its fast heart beat. She instinctively clung to his shirt, feeling him tightening more his grip. They stayed like that, hugging each other and swaying slowly in the rain until the storm did not cease.

«How soon will you depart? ».

«Two weeks».

«...» .

«Whatever happens, I'm never gonna leave you».

* * *

_August 29th, 1939._

She had promised not to cry, and she did not. Even when she saw his melancholic smile through the window of the departing train. She was not supposed to cry, after all the war had not yet broken out, and he would be away only nine months. And then...

_«W -White, marry me»._

_«What? »._

_«After my returning from military service, marry me»._

She would wait, and would have welcomed back as she had greeted him: with a smile.

* * *

_September 4th, 1939_

"DECLARED WAR ON GERMANY: THE FRENCH ARMY PREPARES THE ATTACK".

White held the newspaper tightly, while the hot tears fell on her hands and on the nefarious piece of paper. She had failed to keep her promise; she had succumbed to the fear, the fear that had haunted her since when N held her hands for the first time, saying that he would do anything for her. It had been already three years since that wonderful Parisian spring, and she was always in the same place, always walking for the same countryside of Burgundy, a lost soul in a fish bowl that was running in circles, always finding the same old fears. She did not want to lose him. How she wanted him to be there with her, laying his hand on her belly now visibly swollen with his boyish smile.

* * *

_July, 1940._

There was the same breeze of that day to stroke her hair, the same tree, the same melancholic music in the rustling of the grain, she just needed him. She gently stroked the little girl in her arms, giving her the sweetest of smiles. She began to sway slightly, as if she were dancing to the tune of a subtle melody. And she laughed. She laughed with her eyes, the same gray eyes of his father, in the same field from the golden ears.

_«Whatever happens, I'm never gonna leave you»._

**_Welcome to the Jungle~_**

And yes, this is another Alternative Universe fic, I really like writing this kind of things. xD The title takes his name after the famous Pink Floyd song called "Wish You Were Here", while the scene of the dance during the storm is based on Green Day's videoclip for Wake Me Up When September ends. Just let me know what you think about it, a little **rewiew** would really make me happy ~


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